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segunda-feira, 18 de março de 2024
Nuno Júdice (1949-2014)
domingo, 17 de março de 2024
sábado, 16 de março de 2024
Hoje: Exposição 35 anos de Habitação em Oeiras - Estação Radionaval Comandante Nunes Ribeiro
Portaria n.º 14419, de 12 de junho
sexta-feira, 15 de março de 2024
quinta-feira, 14 de março de 2024
quarta-feira, 13 de março de 2024
terça-feira, 12 de março de 2024
George Shearing according to Jack Kerouac
Dean and I went to see Shearing at Birdland in the midst of the long, mad weekend. The place was deserted, we were the first customers, ten o’clock. Shearing came out, blind, led by the hand to his keyboard. He was a distinguished-looking Englishman with a stiff white collar, slightly beefy, blond, with a delicate English-summer’s-night air about him that came out in the first rippling sweet number he played as the bass-player leaned to him reverently and thrummed the beat. The drummer, Denzil Best, sat motionless except for his wrists snapping the brushes. And Shearing began to rock; a smile broke over his ecstatic face; he began to rock in the piano seat, back and forth, slowly at first, then the beat went up, and he began rocking fast, his left foot jumped up with every beat, his neck began to rock crookedly, he brought his face down to the keys, he pushed his hair back, his combed hair dissolved, he began to sweat. The music picked up. The bass-player hunched over and socked it in, faster and faster, it seemed faster and faster, that’s all. Shearing began to play his chords; they rolled out of the piano in great rich showers, you’d think the man wouldn’t have time to line them up. They rolled and rolled like the sea. Folks yelled for him to ‘Go!’ Dean was sweating; the sweat poured down his collar. ‘There he is! That’s him! Old God! Old God Shearing! Yes! Yes! Yes!’ And Shearing was conscious of the madman behind him, he could hear every one of Dean’s gasps and imprecations, he could sense it though he couldn’t see. ‘That’s right!’ Dean said. ‘Yes!’ Shearing smiled; he rocked. Shearing rose from the piano, dripping with sweat; these were his great 1949 days before he became cool and commercial. When he was gone Dean pointed to the empty piano seat. ‘God’s empty chair,’ he said. On the piano a horn sat; its golden shadow made a strange reflection along the desert caravan painted on the wall behind the drums. God was gone; it was the silence of his departure. It was a rainy night. It was the myth of the rainy night. Dean was popeyed with awe. The madness would lead nowhere. I didn’t know what was happening to me, and I suddenly realized it was only the tea we were smoking; Dean had bought some in New York. It made me think that everything was about to arrive – the moment when you know all and everything is decided forever.
segunda-feira, 11 de março de 2024
Michael Franti & Spearhead - Oh My God (2001)
in my mind they got us livin' suicide
singin' oh-my, oh-my God!
in my mind they got us livin' genocide
oh my my...
but like gasoline you can tell I'm in the tank
like money in the bank
I smell appealing, but I'm toxic, can send ya reeling
without an inklin', keep ya thinkin'
'cause you gave cash to the feds, left your school district for dead
fucked you up in the head, but still they sayin' nothin's wrong
sellin' firewater but outlawing the bong
still believing the system is workin'
while half of my people are still outta workin'
anonymous notes left in the pockets and coats
of judges and juries from 'Frisco to Jersey
threats and protests politicians mob debts
trumped up charges and phoney arrests
stage a lethal injection, the night before the election
'cause he got donations from the prison guard's union
in my mind they got us livin' suicide
singin' oh-my, oh-my God!
in my mind they got us livin' genocide
oh my my...
internal lullabies, human cries
thumps and silence, the language of violence
algorithmic, cataclysmic, seismic, biorhythmic
you can make a life longer, but you can't save it
you can make a clone an then you try to enslave it?
stealin' DNA samples from the unborn
and then you comin' after us
'cause we sampled a James Brown horn?
scientists who's God is progress
a four-headed sheep is their latest project
the CIA runnin' like that Jones from Indiana
but they still won't talk about that (Jim) Jones
(People's Temple mass suicide) in Guyana
This ain't no cartoon
no one slips on bananas
do you really think that that car killed Diana
hell I shot Ronald Reagan, I shot JFK,
I slept with Marilyn (Monroe) she sung me happy birthday
singin'
in my mind they got us livin' suicide
singin' oh-my, oh-my God!
in my mind they got us livin' genocide
oh my my...
the whole media started to holler
but I don't give a fuck who they screwin' in private
I wanna know who they screwin' in public
robbin', cheatin', stealin'
white collar criminal
McDonald eatin', you deserve a beatin'
send you home a weepin', with a fat bill for your
Caribbean weekend
for just about anything they can bust us
false advertising sayin' "halls of Justice''
you tellin' the youth don't be so violent
then you drop bombs on every single continent
mandatory minimum sentencin'
'cause he got caught with a pocket fulla medicine
do that again another ten up in the pen
I feel so mad I wanna bomb an institution
singin'
in my mind they got us livin' suicide
singin' oh-my, oh-my God!
in my mind they got us livin' genocide
oh my god...